Baselines
by Corporate Voyeur
Summary: Archie, wounded from the fiasco in the La Louisienne, goes back to America with Aldo. Mild Archie/Aldo. Written for a fic exchange.


The Great Smoky mountains (or the _gaddamn _Smoky Mountains to some) were much beautiful in person, Archie supposed. There were the early mornings when he would sit out on the dilapidated porch with a steaming cup of tea and watch the fog twine around the tops of the trees. He felt so at peace when it was just him and the sounds of the wilderness morning.

Archie favors the sunsets more, though; the vibrant oranges caressed by light yellows that give way to a darkening sky of violet and blue mystify him beyond explanation. And then with a few more minutes' passing, the entire night is painted in a silky black. A splash of lighter grey where the sun is repeating the same show illuminates farther down the horizon.

He can feel his hips getting better and better as the days progress. The German Major's aim wasn't as good as he made it out to be, so instead of firing into Hicox's crotch, his hips caught the brunt of the firestorm. Bone was shattered, but (relatively) easy to repair after some long hours in the operating room. Archie does mild chores to help along the healing process; stacking wood, sweeping out the porch, even helping to clean out the small shed behind the house.

Aldo, of course, was aware of the extent of Archie's injuries, he was the one to volunteer to take him in after the operation. The few months following his arrival were rough, the pain a constant reminder of the trivial mistake he made in that basement. The early mornings were the worst; sometimes he would lay in bed until the sun rose far above the horizon. Aldo would come in wordlessly, curious of Archie's absence. He would wrap Archie's arm around his shoulders and help him out, standing up with him.

"I don' blame ya. Them Natsees can git to 'nyone's head." Aldo was surprisingly forgiving of Archie's simple error.

Archie was not entirely sure of the events that led to his staying with the famed Aldo the Apache, all he knew was that he was here now and not going anywhere soon. In reality, he would have nowhere to go, even if he wanted to leave.

In the beginning, he was a bit intimidated by the man, but as time progressed and they shared the house, Archie got used to the peculiarities of the man. Aldo wasn't angry when he mumbled to himself, he just had too much on his mind. And when he walked around without a shirt, he learned not to stare too long at the scars that he had accumulated on his arms and torso, wondering of their origin.

Aldo was a different person around his small patch of land, much different than the Lieutenant he had to be out in the French countryside. He'd go out in the morning with his shotgun and faithful Blue Tick Hound appropriately named Blue, and not return until just before sundown.

He would stomp up on the porch with a pheasant or two slung over his shoulder and mutter a greeting to where Archie was sitting comfortably and a gruff_ stay _to Blue. Archie had protested on a few occasions on whether or not it was safe to leave the dog outside for the night where it could get quite chilly, but Aldo shot him down insistently.

"That dog is fine on 'is own. Could prob'ly live without me, t'be honest."

That accent, though oh so different than Archie's own British enunciation he cannot seem to lose, sounds just right when Aldo brings a chair over across from Archie and sits down with a bucket to pluck the pheasant. He starts into some old hunting yarn without a prompting or even an introduction, taking Archie's attentiveness for granted. Archie cannot help but be fascinated with the man and all his mystery. Even though the three year anniversary of the ending of the mission and the beginning of their living together is approaching fast, there are still multitudes he does not know about the Apache. He has gotten so used to the presence of the man, his footsteps, his habits, his everything. But there is one story he wants to hear.

When his tale concludes, they are operating in comfortable silence in the kitchen, bird simmering away in a pot on the stove and its gamey but appetizing smell filling the small room. Aldo stands at attention in front of the boiling pheasant, occasionally adding something here or there.

Aldo, he decides, is most at ease right here. His shoulders are relaxed and he moves easily for a man getting up in his years.

"Aldo, if I asked you to tell me a story, about anything, would you comply?"

"Now why the hell wuddn't I?" The long_ I _sound becomes an _ayye _in Aldo's speak, clear and unburdened, almost with the hint of a laugh_._

"How did you get that scar? The one around your neck."

The change in Aldo's posture is immediate and impossible to ignore. He tenses and turns to catch Archie's gaze. What Archie sees there is a memory, repressed and hidden for so long; a memory whose feelings were channeled into another more constructive endeavor in an effort to hide them away. Archie is dredging these feelings to the surface and laying them raw on the table. Aldo sinks into a chair nearby and sits forward, elbows braced on knees.

This time, he speaks low and almost dangerously.

"Failed lynchin'. Don't like to talk 'bout it."

A beat, then, "It's in the paast. and I'm here now, riiight? So how 'bout we let bygones be bygones, huh?"

The tone in his voice is wounded, lashing out because what Archie is digging at _hurts_, but Hicox has waited too long to settle for just that.

"Sorry, Aldo. Can I at least...may I touch it?"

Aldo scoffs. "Now why would you wanna go and do a thing like that?"

"I don't know, call it curiosity?"

"Fiiine, fiine. Ah don't see why nawt."

Aldo reclines his head in the slightest and Archie stands, wincing at the sudden protesting in his hips. He approaches Aldo slowly, as if he is confronting the lion in its den.

"Oh fer gawd's sake, I ain't gonna bite cha. Wouldda done that a long time ago."

Archie can't help but chuckle as his fingertips touch Aldo's skin. The pulse there is strong, _alive. _His chuckle dies when he feels the scar tissue itself with its strange with its mountains and valleys made from this infamous rope. Aldo is guarded, but Archie can see the trust in this simple offering of bare neck, and is flattered.

"Can't imagine why they'd do such a thing to you." He breathes, tone almost like that of a prayer.

Aldo grunts a noncommittal answer, and Archie can feel the vibration from it in his neck. This man has known pain and strife far greater than Archie himself could ever know. The obscure total of lives he has taken all seem to disappear under the enormity of this symbol etched into the Apache's neck. Here, his life was almost squeezed out of him one hot summer night beneath an old oak tree draped in Spanish moss. The thought is hard for Archie to bear.

On a whim, he leans his head on top of Aldo's, hand migrating to his shoulder to hold him in a gesture of comfort that seems halfhearted to Archie, but from the relaxing of Aldo's shoulders in his grip, it is an appreciated gesture. He breathes in Aldo's scent of pine and rough soap. It's oddly familiar, but most of all, it seems like home.

He does not speak; this moment needs no words. Archie can feel a rough hand on his forearm through the fabric of his jacket; fingers rubbing slightly. He holds Aldo closer to his chest.

Yes, Archie is home.


End file.
